How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Oh, girls. It’s not all that bad, is it?” she asked, rubbing Olivia’s back.

  “Where did you get this . . . this firewater?” Sophie wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her flannel night rail.

  Charlie took another sip before replying. “My father’s study here in London. He won’t miss it. And even if he does, he’ll probably assume Nate took it. He’s such a devil.”

  Nate—or Nathaniel Hastings, Viscount Malverne—was Charlie’s older brother and, as the eldest son of the family, heir to the earldom of Westhampton. Sophie had met him in passing two months ago in Hyde Park while out walking with Charlie, so she could certainly attest to the fact that he was wickedly handsome—a man who could easily make females blush just by casting a sinful smile their way. Indeed, Sophie rather suspected she resembled a boiled lobster when Charlie had made the introductions.

  Of course, Charlie had warned her, Olivia, and Arabella on numerous occasions that Nate was a rogue to his very bones, and exactly the sort of man they should be wary of when they made their debuts. He seduced women regularly, without care or regard for their feelings or their ruined reputations. He was definitely not the sort of man who wished to marry anytime soon.

  But despite Charlie’s warnings, a small part of Sophie had always thrilled to the idea of capturing the attention of a man like Nate, even if it was just for a little while. What was it about wicked rakes that lured her—and perhaps other women—like a candle flame lured the hapless moth? The glint of mischief in Lord Malverne’s dark eyes had seemed to contain a promise as his gaze traveled over her that cold winter’s day: Come with me and I will show you sensual delights. Forbidden things both bright and burning. Secret things that are inherently dangerous yet irresistible. No wonder she still blushed at the memory. The heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with the brandy she sipped . . .

  The sound of Arabella calling her name pulled Sophie from her ruminations, and she approached her bed to examine the other illicit items Charlie had brought with her to supplement their “education.” Aside from a jar of sugared almonds and one of barley sugar sweets, there were several leather-bound volumes, a slender silver box, and a folio, which Charlie had just pulled from the leather satchel.

  Sophie put down her cup, picked up one of the books, and then gasped. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, volume one.

  “Charlie,” she breathed. “Where on earth did you get this? You know it’s banned, don’t you? That the author was arrested?” She once overheard two older women at the circulating library discussing it in excited whispers behind one of the standing shelves when they’d come across another not-quite-so-scandalous book entitled Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded.

  “Of course, I do,” replied Charlie. “And to answer your first question, I found it in my father’s library, along with volume two, and these . . .” She fanned a sheaf of sketches and drawings across the counterpane that put Olivia to the blush and sent Arabella into a paroxysm of laughter.

  Sophie leaned closer, and her eyebrows shot up when she saw the erotic nature of each picture. “Oh, my Lord,” she whispered, picking one up with shaking fingers as heat crawled over her face. “What, in heaven’s name, is he doing to her?”

  Charlie grinned. “That, my dear Sophie, is one of the many things you’ll become enlightened about.”

  Behind her glasses, Arabella’s gaze sharpened with interest as she picked up the ornate silver box, unfastened the clasp, and lifted the lid. “Cheroots, Charlie? Are these for us to try?”

  “If you like,” she said, taking one of the slender, quite feminine-looking cigars from the box. “My aunt Tabitha calls them cigarrillos. Her tobacconist makes them especially for her using a tobacco blend from Seville.”

  Olivia also picked up one of the cigars and gave it a small sniff. “My g-goodness. Perhaps we should call ourselves the Society for Scandalous Young Women.”

  “Well, we will only be deemed scandalous if we are caught,” Charlie remarked as she plucked a taper from the spill vase on the carved wooden mantelpiece. She dipped it in the flame of a candle and touched it to the end of her cigarrillo until the tip caught alight. Then, after inhaling a small breath, she expertly puffed out a delicate cloud of smoke. The earthy yet sweet scent of burning tobacco filled the room.

  “Ha, it’s clear you’ve done this before,” declared Arabella. Following Charlie’s example, she used a taper to light her cigarrillo before placing it between her lips. She drew a breath and then promptly burst into a fit of coughing so violent, her glasses were dislodged.

  Charlie’s brow dipped into a concerned frown. “Gently, gently. Don’t breathe in too deeply.”

  “Oh . . . that’s . . . that’s truly awful,” gasped Arabella. Her face had turned a sickly shade of green. “I’m sure my lungs will never be the same again.” Wrinkling her nose, she held the smoking cigar away from her like one might hold a dead mouse by the tail. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I don’t think I want any more.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Charlie took it from her, then glanced between Olivia and Sophie. “Would either of you like to try?”

  Olivia shook her head and Sophie crossed to the window, drawing back the dull blue utilitarian curtains. “No thank you, Charlie. And I think we should let some fresh air in. If Mrs. Rathbone notices the smell—”

  “Mrs. Rathbone has noticed the smell. And the raucous laughter and chatter.”

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Her heart vaulting into the vicinity of her throat, Sophie whirled around then nearly fainted. In the open doorway, her plump arms folded over her ample chest, stood a glowering Mrs. Rathbone. Even though she only wore a rumpled night rail, a coarse woolen shawl, and a linen cap that was askew, her informal attire didn’t diminish her gravitas or the seriousness of the moment in the least. From beneath heavy gray brows, her pale blue eyes skewered them all in turn. Arabella’s countenance was green again, Olivia was as white as the bedsheets, and Sophie wondered how she continued to remain upright when her knees felt as though they were made of blancmange.

  Charlie, on the other hand, looked remarkably unperturbed. She tossed both of the cigarrillos into the fire and lifted her chin. “Our apologies for disturbing your sleep, Mrs. Rathbone. We shall, of course, retire immediately. If you would just give me a moment to gather my things—”

  Charlie had barely taken a step across the rug when Mrs. Rathbone raised a hand. “Stop right there, my gel,” she barked. Her glare swept over Sophie’s bedside table and bed, and then her fleshy face turned an alarming shade of crimson when she took in the nature of the scattered sketches. “What. Are. Those?” she demanded in a shaking voice. When no one responded, she raised a quivering hand to her equally quivering jowls. “And what have you all been drinking? Brandy? Is that brandy I see in your cups? And what’s that other bottle on the bed?”

  “Port,” replied Charlie without batting an eyelid. She started to add, “They’re for medicinal pur—” but Mrs. Rathbone jabbed a finger in her direction.

  “Not another word out of you, Lady Charlotte.” The headmistress all but charged across the room and snatched up both bottles. Although her expression still bordered on furious, Sophie thought she detected a covetous glimmer in the woman’s eyes. “This behavior is outrageous,” she continued as she tucked both bottles into the crook of one arm. “Beyond the pale. Smoking? Imbibing alcohol? Studying lewd material? And all in the middle of the night! I can scarcely believe it. In all my years as the headmistress of this establishment, I have never, ever encountered such shocking conduct from young ladies. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Just wait till the school’s patrons and your parents hear about it!”

  Charlie inclined her head. “Yes, it is shameful,” she agreed in a contrite tone that almost sounded sincere to Sophie’s ears. “And although you forbade me to speak, Mrs. Rathbone, I feel compelled to confess that everything you see on the bed—the books, the sketche
s, the cheroot cigars—and the bottles of port and brandy, all of it belongs to me. I alone bear the blame. Miss Brightwell, Miss Jardine, and Miss de Vere are innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  Mrs. Rathbone narrowed her eyes. “Yet all of these proscribed items are in Miss Brightwell’s and Miss de Vere’s bedchamber. And”—her gaze darted about the room—“I spy four teacups of brandy.” She gave an inelegant sniff and looked down her flushed nose at them all. “As far as I can see, each one of you is guilty of unladylike conduct in the extreme and, subsequently, you are not fit to remain within this academy’s walls. In the morning, I shall send word to your families and begin the process of having you all expelled.”

  Arabella sucked in a startled breath, Olivia wrung her hands, and Sophie felt as though a massive weight had just crushed her chest, driving all the air from her lungs. Oh, dear God, no. This can’t be happening. What would her family say? Her mother? Her stepfather?

  The ton?

  But it was happening. Even Charlie’s face was ashen.

  As Sophie struggled to drag in enough air to breathe, Mrs. Rathbone issued instructions to Charlie and Arabella to gather up all of the offending items off the bed, and Olivia was ordered to tip the contents of the teacups out of the window into the frosty garden bed below.

  “I’m sorry,” mouthed Charlie as she picked up her bandbox and followed a tearful Arabella and a righteously indignant Rathbone out of the room.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Sophie sank onto her bed and hugged a pillow against her chest. Hot tears of mortification and despair scalded her eyelids.

  There was sure to be a scandal of monumental proportions. Thrown out of a young ladies’ academy. Her reputation and that of all of her friends would be ruined. There would be no invitations to Almack’s. No invitations to anywhere at all. Only stares and whispers, closed doors and censure wherever she went.

  Her parents would be livid, her younger sisters heartbroken.

  She was only eighteen, but she would be forever branded as a woman of loose character and questionable morals. A hussy.

  A slut.

  Sophie swallowed, attempting to dislodge the gathering ache in her throat. How on earth was she to meet her love match now? She’d never make a socially and financially advantageous union as her family had hoped she would; indeed, without such a marriage, there was a very real chance her stepfather might lose Nettlefield Grange and the accompanying estate. How shocking that her dreams and her family’s livelihood could be crushed to dust because of her folly.

  The weight on her chest was back, and her heart felt as though it might crack beneath the strain.

  “Do . . . do you think there’s any chance Rathbone m-might try to hush things up? To preserve her own and the school’s reputation?” murmured Olivia in a voice husky with tears.

  Sophie dashed away her own tears with shaking fingers. “I expect she might try to, but word is bound to get out. Who doesn’t love a juicy piece of gossip? And besides Charlie, none of us has any social connections that would hold sway with Rathbone. I really don’t think there is anything we can do to stop our expulsion.”

  Olivia’s eyes glimmered with fresh tears. “We’ll be socially destroyed then.”

  Sophie’s heart broke just that little bit more at witnessing her sweet friend’s distress. She cast aside her pillow and crossed to the other bed. “Yes, Olivia,” she whispered as she enveloped the trembling girl in a hug. “I’m afraid we will.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Amy Rose Bennett has wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember. As she is an avid reader with a particular love for historical romance, it seemed only natural to write stories in her favorite genre. She has a passion for creating emotion-packed--and sometimes a little racy--stories set in the Georgian and Regency periods. Of course, her strong-willed heroines and rakish heroes always find their happily ever after.

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